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The Earth, rotating.


Cat, as interpreted by Tim Burton.





Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Earlier today I came *this* close to dumping a nice big glurt of formula into my coffee. I suppose that would have been marginally less horrifying than feeding my two-week old baby a bottle of Coffee Mate: Original Flavor, but really, I was hoping the constant absentmindedness would disappear along with that goofy line on my belly. Sadly, both seem here to stay.

More postpartum sexiness: power sweating! Apparently, it's not uncommon to sweat "heavily" for weeks after birth as the body rids itself of extra fluids. In theory I support this endeavor, as I would like to once again wear my wedding rings and maybe fit back into a non-flipflop style of shoe, but in practice there is NOTHING MORE GROSS than waking up at 3 AM completely soaked from head to toe, freezing and dripping and wrapped in wet sheets weighted down with the salt content of a deer lick.

Oh, unless it's wearing a sanitary pad night and day for weeks on end. Yeah, that's a party in a can, let me tell you. All those months of carelessly skipping by the feminine hygiene aisle in the grocery store have come back to haunt me with the Giant Period That Never Ends, and tampons are forbidden. I haven't worn a pad since, oh, SEVENTH GRADE or so, because pads = diapers, and, well, yecccch, but hey, only four more weeks (!) of Kotex Kraziness.

ALSO, I am not allowed to take a bath yet. I have no words for this, except to tell you this: there is now a Lush store in my neighborhood mall. Right now. As I type. Filled with delicious products I can't soak myself in (OR devour with a spoon, despite their salivary names). The tragedy, O, the tragedy of it all.

I'd complain about the no-sex thing, too, but really, even this journal Has Its Limits.


We gave Riley his first bath last night (sans Lush, however much I may have secretly wanted to slather him with coconut almond body wash and then swallow him whole), which was an activity there is no possible way I could have brought myself to participate in during the first few days he was home (slowly, I am learning that he is not actually formed from delicate Waterford crystal and that I can handle him without breathing into a paper bag or speed-dialing the nurses' hotline). Water-logged, he's slippery as an eel, so JB and I teamed up to grasp various appendages and hose him down. After an initial squawk of surprise, he seemed to be okay with the experience - until, that is, we lifted him up and out and exposed him, albeit briefly, to the apparently Arctic temperature inside the house before we had a chance to get a towel wrapped around him. My god, the anger! The red-faced howling! This, again, would have reduced me to sympathetic tears a week ago, but I am slightly ashamed to report there was some sniggering going on at our infant son's expense last night. I could never laugh at his cries if they were caused by pain, or hunger, but the "I AM FILLED WITH RAGE AT YOUR ACTIONS" volcanic outbursts are, well, funny as hell.

As are the trumpeting noises exploding merrily from his rear end many times per day. Baby farts are awesomely hilarious, especially when preceded by an expression of intense concentration. Hnnnnnhhhh.....POOT! Ahhh. I like to occasionally refer to Riley as The Thunder From Down Under.

So that's what I'm doing lately: laughing at our baby's discomfort. I'll have you know I do also feed him on occasion, although there's no guaranteeing it's not a nondairy coffee product that he's thriving on.


What say you about the change in typeface? Easier to read? Harder? Bueller?


Is he totally flipping me off here, or what? Probably because I'm writing about his farts on the internet.


This was a flower arrangement and cake given to us from Workplace - can you believe how pretty they are? The cake was delicious: pistachio and lemon cream.


I can't stop devouring Riley's face. He's even better than cake, and fat-free to boot.

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